by Unknown
David Lang, marry his granddaughter, and dies characteristically across the way. David has his day, and Simon, his son, succeeds him; and in the meantime many a memorable figure glides shadowlike across the screen. The youth with his heart in his mouth is Lord George Lambton. It is an Earl of Westmoreland that plants his shoulders against the door, and tells the priest to hurry. The foot that drums on the floor is Lady Alicia Parson’s. A son of Lord Chief Justice Ellenborough makes way for his own son; a daughter follows in the very footsteps of her father, only a few hours between them. A daughter of Archdeacon Philpot arrives at four o’clock in the morning, and her companion forgets to grease the landlord’s hand. The Hon. Charles Law just misses Lord Deerhurst. There are ghosts in cocked hats, and naval and military uniform, in muslin, broadcloth, tweed and velvet, gold lace and pigskin; swords flash, pistols smoke, steaming horses bear bleeding riders out of sight, and a thousand forms flit weird and shadowy through the stifling room.
The dinner of the only surviving priest of Gretna Hall frizzled under the deft knife of his spouse as he rubbed his hands recently over the reminiscences of his youth. Willum Lang never officiated at the Hall. Intelligent Jardine, full of years and honors, now enjoys his ease, not without a priestly dignity, on a kitchen sofa, in his pocket edition of a home at Springfield, and it is perhaps ont of respect to his visitor that he crowns his hoary head with a still whiter hat. His arms outstretched to the fire, he looks, by the flashes of light, in his ingle-nook a Shakespearian spirit crouching over an unholy pot, but his genial laugh betrays him, and his comely wife does not scruple to recall him to himself when he threatens to go off in an eternal chuckle. A stalwart border-woman she, in short petticoats and delightful cap, such as in the killing times of the past bred the Johnny Armstrongs and the terrible mosstroopers of the border. A storehouse of old ballads, and a Scotchwoman after Scott’s own heart.
The day that Gretna Hall became an inn, its landlord felt himself called to the priesthood, and as long as he and his son remained above ground, marriage was the heaviest item in their bills. But when Gretna knew them no more, Jardine’s chance had come. Even at Springfield the line has always been drawn at female priests, and from the “big house” used to come frequent messages to the shoemaker with its mistress’s compliments, and would he step up at once. The old gentleman is a bit of a dandy in his way, and it is pleasant to know that Nature herself gave him on those occasions a hint when it was time to dress. The rush for him down dark fields and across the Headless Cross was in a flurry of haste, but in the still night the rumble of a distant coach had been borne to him over the howes and meadows, and Jardine knew what that meant as well as the marriage service. Sometimes the coaches came round by Springfield, when the hall was full, and there was a tumbling out and in again by trembling runaways at rival inns. Even the taverns have run couples, and up and down the sleety street horses pranced and panted in search of an idle priest. Jardine remembers one such nightmare time when the clatter of a pursuing vehicle came nearer and nearer, and a sweet young lady in the Queen’s Head flung up her hands to heaven. Crash went her true lover’s fist through a pane of glass to awaken the street (which always slept with one eye open) with the hoarse wail, “A hundred pounds to the man that marries me!” But big as was the bribe, the speed of the pursuers was greater, and the maiden’s father looking in at the inn at an inconvenient moment called her away to fulfil another engagement. The Solway lies white from Gretna Hall like a sheet of mourning paper, between edges of black trees and hills. The famous long, low room still looks out on an ageing park, but they are only ghosts that join hands in it now, and it is a clinging to old days that makes the curious moon peep beneath the blind. The priest and the unbidden witness still are, but brides and bridegrooms come no more. To the days of his youth Jardine had to fling back his memory to recall the gravel springing from the wheels of Wakefield’s flying chariot. The story is told in Hutchinson’s “Chronicles of Gretna Green,” the first volume of which leads up to but does not broach the subject, and is common property at Springfield. The adventurer’s dupe was an affectionate schoolgirl, on whose feelings he worked by representing himself as the one friend who could save her father from ruin and disgrace. The supposed bankrupt was said to have taken flight to Scotland, and the girl of fifteen, jumping into Wakefield’s coach at Liverpool, started with him in pursuit. A more graceless rascal never was, for at Carlisle the adventurer swore that he had talked with Miss Turner’s father in a hotel where he was lying hidden from the sheriff’s officers, and that the fugitive’s wish was that she should, without delay, accept Mr. Wakefield’s hand. The poor lassie, frantic with anxiety, was completely gulled, and on March 8, 1826, Wakefield’s coach drew up at Gretna Hall. Too late came the pursuit to stop the marriage, but the runaways were traced to France, and the law soon had the husband of a week by the heels. He had trusted, like all his brotherhood, to the lady’s father making the best of it; and so, perhaps, he did; for the adventurer’s address for the next three years was — Newgate, London.
Spiders of both sexes kept their nets at Gretna Green, but a tragedy was only enacted at the hall between a score of comedies; and they were generally lovesick youths and maidens who interrupted the priest to ask if that was not the “so — sound of wh — wheels on the gravel walk?” A couple whom it would almost have been a satisfaction to marry without a fee (for the mere example of the thing) was that which raced from the south of England with the lady’s father. “When they reached the top of a hill his arms were gesticulating at the bottom, and they never turned one corner without seeing his steaming horse take another. Poor was the fond lover (dark his prospects at Gretna Green in consequence) but brave the maid, to whom her friends would insist on leaving money, which was the cause of the whole to-do. The father, looking on the swain with suspicious eye, took to dreaming of postilions, highroads, blacksmiths and Gretna Green. He would not suffer his daughter to move from his sight, and even to dances he escorted her in his private carriage, returning for her (for he was a busy man) at night. Quick of invention were the infuriated lovers. Threading the mazes of a dance, the girl was one evening snatched from her partner’s arms by the announcement that her father’s carriage barred the way below. A hurried explanation of why he had come so soon, a tripping down the stairs with trembling limbs into a close coach, a maiden in white in her lover’s arms, and hey-ho for Gretna Green. Jardine is mellowed with a gentle cynicism, and sometimes he breaks off in his reminiscences to wonder what people want to be married for. The Springfield priest, he chuckles, is a blacksmith at whom love cannot afford to laugh. Ay, friend Jardine, but what about the blacksmith who laughs at love?
Half a century ago Mr. McDiarmid, a Scotch journalist of repute, loosened the tongue of a Springfield priest with a bowl of toddy. The result was as if the sluice had been lifted bodily from a dam, and stories (like the whiskey) flowed like water. One over-curious paterfamilias there was who excused his visit to the village of weddings on the ground that he wished to introduce to the priest a daughter who might one day require his services. “And sure enough,” old Elliot, who entered into partnership with Simon Lang, crowed to his toddy-ladle, “I had her back with a younger man in the matter of three months!” There lives, too, in Springfield’s memory the tale of the father who bolted with an elderly spinster, and returning to England passed his daughter and her lover on the way. Dark and wintry was the night, the two coaches rattled by, and next morning four persons who had gone wrong opened the eyes of astonishment.
When David Lang was asked during Wakefield’s trial how much he had been paid for discharging the duties of priest, he replied, pleasantly, “£20 or £30, or perhaps £40; I cannot say to a few pounds.” This was pretty well, but there are authenticated cases in which £100 was paid. The priests had no fixed fee, and charged according to circumstances. If business was slack and the bridegroom not pressing, they lowered their charges, but where the bribed post-boys told them of high rank, hot pursuit,
and heavy purses, they squeezed their dupes remorselessly. It is told of Joseph Paisley that when on his deathbed he heard the familiar rumble of coaches into the village, he shook death from him, ordered the runaways to approach his presence, married three couples from his bed, and gave up the ghost with three hundred pounds in his palsied hands. Beattie at the toll-bar, on the other hand, did not scorn silver fees, and as occasion warranted the priests have doubtless ranged in their charges from half-a-crown and a glass of whiskey to a hundred pounds.
Though the toll-bar only at rare intervals got wealthy pairs into its clutches, Murray had not been long installed in office when pockets crammed with fees made him waddle as heavily as a duck. Fifty marriages a month was no uncommon occurrence at Gretna at that time, and it was then that the mansion was built which still stands about a hundred yards on the English side of the Sark. The toll-keeper, to whom it owes its existence, erected it for a hotel that would rival Gretna Hall, and prove irresistible to the couples who, on getting married on the Scotch side, would have to pass it on their return journey. But the alterations in the Marriage Laws marred the new hotel’s chances, and Murray found that he had overreached himself. Perhaps one reason why he no longer prospered was because he pursued a niggardly policy with the postilions, ostlers, and other rapscallions who demanded a share of the booty. The Langs knew what they were about far too well to quarrel with the post-boys, and stories are still current in Springfield of these faithful youths tumbling their employers into the road rather than take them to a “blacksmith” with whom they did not deal.
There is no hope for Gretna. Springfield was and is the great glory of its inhabitants. Here ran the great wall of Adrian, the scene of many a tough fight in the days of stone weapons and skin-clad Piets. The Debatable Land, sung by Trouvere and Troubadour, is to-day but a sodden moss, in which no King Arthur strides fearfully away from the “grim lady” of the bogs; and mosstroopers, grim and gaunt and terrible, no longer whirl with lighted firebrands into England. “With a thousand stars the placid moon lies long drawn out and drowned at the bottom of the Solway, without a lovesick maid to shed a tear; the chariots that once rattled and flashed along the now silent road were turned into firewood decades ago, and the runaways, from a Prince of Capua to a beggar-maid, are rotten and forgotten.
THOUGHTFUL BOYS MAKE THOUGHTFUL MEN.
URQUHART is a boy who lives in fear that his friends and relations will send him the wrong birthday presents. Before his birthday came round this year, he dropped them pretty broad hints as to the kind of gifts he would prefer, supposing they meant to remember the occasion. He worked his people differently, according to the relationship that existed between him and them. Thus to his mother he simply wrote, “A fishingrod is what I want; but to an uncle, from whom there was only the possibility of the present, he said, “By the way, next Monday week is my birthday, and my mother is going to send me a fishingrod. Wouldn’t it be jolly rot if any other body sent me a fishingrod — Your ‘affectionate and studious nephew, Thomas Urquhart.” To an elderly lady, with whom he had once spent part of his summer holiday, he wrote “By the bye” (he always came to the point with by the bye) “next Monday week is my birthday. I am wondering if anybody will send me a cake like the ones you bake so beautifully.”
That lady should, of course, figuratively have punched Urquhart’s head, but his communication charmed her. She did not, however, send him a cake. He had a letter from her in a few days, in which, without referring to his insinuating remarks about his birthday and her cakes, she expressed a hope that he was working hard. Urquhart thought this very promising, and sent a reply that undid him. “I am sweating,” he said, “no end; and I think there is no pleasure like perusing books. When the other chaps go away to play, I stay at the school and peruse books.” After that Urquhart counted the old lady among his certainties, and so she was, after a manner. On his birthday he received a gift from her, and also a letter, in which she said that her original intention had been to send him a cake. “But your nice letter,” she went on, “in which you say you are fond of reading, reminds me that you are getting to be a big boy, so I send you a book instead.” Urquhart anxiously undid the brown paper in which the book was wrapped. It was a volume of mild biographies, entitled, “Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men.”
From its first appearance among us, this book caused a certain amount of ill-feeling. I learned by accident that Urquhart, on the strength of the lady’s letter, had stated for a fact to his comrades that she was going to send him a cake. He had also taken Fleming Secundus to a pastry-cook’s in the vicinity of the school, and asked him to turn his eyes upon a cake which had the place of honor in the centre of the window. Secundus admitted with a sigh that it was a beauty. Without comment Urquhart led him to our local confectioner’s, and pointed out another cake. Secundus again passed favorable criticism, the words he used, I have reason to believe, being “Oh, Crikey!” By this time Urquhart had exhausted the shops of an interesting kind in our neighborhood, and he and his companion returned to the school. For a time Urquhart said nothing, but at last he broke the silence. “You saw yon two cakes?” he asked Secundus, who replied, with a smack of the lips, in the affirmative. “Then let me tell you,” said Urquhart, solemnly, “that the two of them rolled together don’t come within five miles of the cake I’m to get on my birthday.” Tremendous news like this spreads through a school like smoke, and Urquhart was courted as he had never been before. One of the most pitiful cases of toadyism known to me was witnessed that very day in the football field. I was playing in a school match on the same side as Urquhart and a boy called Cocky Jones by his associates because of his sublime impertinence to his master. While Urquhart was playing his shoelace became loosened, and he stooped to tie it. “I say, Urquhart,” cried Cocky, “let me do that for you!” It will thus be seen, taking one thing with another, that Urquhart’s confidence in the old lady had raised high hopes. “Is this the day Urquhart gets his cake?” the “fellows” asked each other. Consider their indignation when he got, instead, “Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men.” Secundus refused to speak to him; Williamson, Green, Robbins, Tosh, and others scowled as if he had stolen their cake; Cocky Jones kicked him and bolted.
The boy who felt the disappointment most was, however, Urquhart himself. He has never been a shining light in his classes, but that day he stumbled over the Latin grammar at every step. From nine to ten he was quiet and sullen, like one felled by the blow. It is, I believe, notorious that in a fair fight Cocky Jones could not stand up before Urquhart for a moment; yet, when Cocky kicked, Urquhart did not pursue him. Between ten and eleven Urquhart had a cynical countenance, which implied that his faith in humanity was gone. By twelve he looked fierce, as if he meant to write his benefactress, and give her a piece of his mind. I saw him during the dinner-hour in hot controversy with Green and Tosh, who were evidently saying that he had deceived them. From this time he was pugnacious, like one determined to have it out with somebody, and as he can use his fists, this mood made his companions more respectful. Fleming Secundus is his particular chum, and after the first bitterness of disappointment, Secundus returned to his allegiance. He offered to mark Cocky Jones’s face, I fancy, for I saw him in full pursuit of Cocky in the playground. Having made it up, he and Urquhart then discussed the matter calmly in a corner. They had several schemes before them. One was to send the book back, saying that Urquhart had already a copy of it.
“But, I haven’t,” said Urquhart.
“Williamson has read it, though,” said Secundus, as if that was much the same thing.
“But though we did send it back,” Urquhart remonstrated, “the chances are that she would send me another book in its place.”
His faith, you see, had quite gone.
“You could tell her you had got such a lot of books that you would prefer a cake for a change.” Urquhart said that would be putting it too plain. “Well, then,” said Secundus, “even though she did send you another book, it
would perhaps be a better one than that. Tell her to send ‘The Boy Crusoes.’ I haven’t read it.”
“I have, though,” said Urquhart.
“Well, she could send ‘The Prairie Hunters.’”
“She’s not the kind,” said Urquhart. “It’s always these improving books she buys.”
Ultimately the two boys agreed upon a line of action which was hardly what the reader might expect. Urquhart wrote letters of thanks to all those who had remembered his birthday, and to the old lady the letter which passed through my hands read as follows:
“DEAR MISS — : I sit down to thank you very faithfully for your favor, namely, the book entitled ‘Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men.’ It is a jolly book, and I like it no end better than a cake, which would soon be ate up, and then nothing to show for it, I am reading your beautiful present regular, and hoping it will make me a thoughtful boy so as I may be a thoughtful man, no more at present, “I am, Dear Miss — , “Your very sincere friend,
